


Private

by TheDistantDusk



Series: Canon Hinny one-shots (all ratings, no order) [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Discord: Harry and Ginny, Domestic Fluff, F/M, No Smut, quarantine fluff, t for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25827538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDistantDusk/pseuds/TheDistantDusk
Summary: But it’s part of the job, Ginny reminds herself. She must sit through six of these interviews per year. She must be generally pleasant and polite. She must represent her team well.And above all else, she must not lose her temper. Right.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley
Series: Canon Hinny one-shots (all ratings, no order) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064753
Comments: 33
Kudos: 246





	Private

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2020 Harry/Ginny Discord birthday challenge! We had to involve themes of birthdays and quarantine, so I hope I delivered :D
> 
> Thanks so much to Flo for betaing/Britpicking and to Liza for organizing the whole thing! It was a lot of fun!
> 
> If you’d like to join the madness, find us on Discord! https://discord.gg/PgstgvE

Being the significant other of the most desirable wizard in Britain doesn’t come without drawbacks. Ginny knew that from the off. Even the earliest days of their raw, rekindled relationship were marked with requests for interviews, a trend that continued throughout the summer of 1998. When she returned to Hogwarts that September, reporters took it upon themselves to sneak onto the platform, capture her and Harry’s final, departing snog… and then reprint it, absolutely everywhere. Without their consent.

Her decision to pursue professional quidditch after Hogwarts made the situation both better and worse. On one hand, the publicity became less random. Less speculative. As soon as she signed with the Harpies, her privacy was protected — at least to some degree. Press events were soon planned and targeted instead of the sporadic, anxiety-inducing sneaks attacks to which she’d become accustomed.

The trade-off, of course, is that when press events _do_ happen, they’re dreadful.

Utterly, completely dreadful.

Ginny sits in the enormous purple armchair and bites the inside of her cheek. She hates interviews like these… ones of the aforementioned _dreadful_ variety. This one is with Sandra Richardson of _Witch Weekly_ , a woman known for her propensity towards twisting words and taking statements out of context. But it’s part of the job, Ginny reminds herself for the thousandth time that morning. She must sit through six of these per year, each before a match. She must be generally pleasant and polite. She must represent her team well.

And above all else, she must not lose her temper. Right.

“Don’t be nervous, dear,” croons a dripping, saccharine voice. _Oh_. Ginny swallows. Sandra Richardson, here for the interview.

Sandra places the tray on the table between them and shoots Ginny a wink as she begins pouring tea for each of them. A younger, more naive Ginny might have trusted Sandra from her appearance alone. Her gold jewelry and buttoned blouse make her seem more matronly than predatory. But just as she plops down in her armchair, brushing a lock of her coiffed blonde hair from her forehead, Ginny catches a look in her eyes that she’s all too familiar with.

Ambition… red-hot, glowing ambition. The type she’ll chase with everything she has.

 _Yes_. Ginny sits up a bit straighter. The interview hasn’t started, but she already sees it for what it is. The whole thing now reminds of scoldings in Umbridge’s office.

“Sugar?” Sandra gestures towards a polka-dotted dish in front of them.

Ginny forces a smile. “No thanks.” Merlin knows she won’t be drinking it. This is what they do, these reporters; they lull you into a false sense of security with their tea and their biscuits and their grins. Once upon a time, Ginny was thick enough to fall for that — for the manipulation disguised as courtesy. Now, she’s a bit wiser.

“Interesting,” says Sandra, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh?” Ginny can’t fathom why, but she has a feeling she’s about to find out anyway.

Sandra slowly sips her tea before she lifts her quill and notebook. “Are you abstaining from sugar for… any particular health reason?” she asks, her lips curled in a coy smirk.

Ginny gets the unnerving sensation that the interview started long ago. She refuses to give Sandra the satisfaction of a true reply.

“Nope,” she replies brightly, clasping her hands in her lap. “Just not my prefere—”

“—Mm,” interrupts Sandra. “Because _I_ hear that sugar and caffeine often trigger morning sickness. Did you know that, Ginny?”

Ginny’s forced smile remains in place. In truth, she’d expected something like this. Their wedding is soon — _very_ soon. People have been pestering them about their reproductive plans for months. Sandra certainly isn’t above the masses.

“I didn’t,” Ginny says smoothly. “But let’s discuss quidditch. It’s why I’m here, after all!” She shoots Sandra a knowing wink and hopes that conveys when she can’t say: _mind your fucking business, you cow._

Unfortunately, Sandra doesn’t take the hint. “It’s now 6th August, Ginny. Officially in between the birthdays of you and your Chosen One.”

“Well spotted,” Ginny notes, still grinning. “Who needs calendars when we have you?”

There’s a beat.

For just a second, Ginny thinks she’s gone too far… but she soon realizes that with Sandra, there’s no such thing as a boundary.

“We’ve all _swooned_ over those photos of him holding your niece — oh, what’s her name…” Sandra taps her teeth, pretending like she doesn’t know the answer; Ginny’s blood rises to a low simmer. “Victoria?”

“ _Victoire_ ,” Ginny snaps. Little gets her back up faster than bringing oblivious children into things. Especially when they’re used for manipulation tactics.

“Oh yes, that’s right,” Sandra croons. “Victoire!” She places a hand over her heart as if reliving a poignant memory… as if _she’s_ had any bloody involvement in Vic’s life. “She’s such a gorgeous baby, isn’t she?”

Ginny forces a laugh. “You’d know, I reckon, since you’ve seen her! _Now._ ” She clears her throat. “I’ve a game in two weeks against the Falcons. Let’s discuss—”

“In time,” Sandra says, waving a manicured hand. To her left, a fluttering of movement catches Ginny’s eye. _Shit_. The white feathered end of a Quick Quotes Quill furiously darts through the air as the tip scribbles on a notepad. When did Sandra take that out? She thought for certain that Hermione banned them…

“But for now, let’s focus a bit on you, eh?” Sandra presses, her cloud of blonde hair brushing against her shoulders as she cocks her head. “I’m sure readers would be titillated to hear about how your fiance has been in quarantine for over a month. What’s that been like?”

Ginny snorts. _T_ _hat’s_ what she’s getting at?! The complete non-story of Harry being quarantined?

“That’s… not very exciting,” Ginny replies. Because it isn’t. With a bored voice, she begins the thousandth recollection of exactly how and why her fiance hasn’t been able to leave the house for two weeks. “Harry was raised by muggles and wasn’t exposed to Dragon Pox as a child. With the latest outbreak in London, the Auror Department wanted to keep him home until they’re finished with the latest preventative potion.” Ginny picks at a piece of lint on the velvet couch. “It’s quite dull.”

_Just like this interview._

The remainder of the sentence is unspoken in the air, but Ginny hears it resonating in her head so loudly she almost jumps.

Sandra just gives her a knowing smirk; Ginny feels a rush of relief that the woman isn’t a Legilimens. “I don’t know. Sounds like fun, having a man all wrapped up for you, 24/7?”

 _Ha!_ This time, Ginny really does laugh. Seriously, what _is_ the media obsession with constant sex? She’s about to launch into an explanation about how it’s thoroughly possible to be too bored to shag, but Sandra cuts her off with an even more horrendous question.

“Remind me,” says Sandra, leaning in close. “How old were your in-laws when their Chosen One was born?”

Oh, for the love of—

Ginny bats her eyelashes fiercely. “I’m sure you know,” she says through gritted teeth, “since you’re asking this question. But seeing as how we can’t bloody ask them, I don’t find it appropriate to—”

“Lily Potter was nineteen when she fell pregnant,” Sandra says through a stage whisper. She claps her hands together as if she finds this a truly revealing statement. As if anyone isn’t capable of reading the bloody gravestones and doing the math.

Ginny clears her throat. “Good to know. So the Harpies only have one more match this year, and—”

“You’re 19,” Sandra adds, continuing the conversation she’s only been having with herself. “The rumors around London are that the quarantine is bogus. Has Harry already quit his job to be a stay at home dad? He’d love to have his own Chosen Ones, Miss Weasley.”

In retrospect, Ginny will realize that this comment is the final fucking straw. She could handle the false flattery. She could see through the batted eyelashes and the singsong lulling into complacency. But she cannot — _will_ not — stand for this complete cow spreading rumors about Harry.

But instead of handling any of it maturely, she rises to her feet, glares at Sandra, and provides a retort so lewd, so scathing, that it rocks the tabloids for months.

And with a triumphant quirk of her eyebrow, Ginny turns on the spot and disapparates, leaving Sandra’s dropped jaw to tremble as the Quick Quotes Quill continues scribbling so fast it scratches the parchment.

* * *

Even before her feet touch down, she regrets the whole ordeal.

She doesn’t regret telling Sandra off, mind — but with a wince, Ginny accepts that yes, she does regret _how_ she did it. She regrets that she’s just given the cow enough ammunition to paint her as a true villain. She regrets that she involved Harry and—

Harry.

Ginny shudders. Harry, who values his privacy above everything else. Harry, who won’t discuss anything about her in interviews, but still gets this adorably lovesick grin whenever her name comes up. Harry, who loves her. And trusted her.

 _Fuck_.

Ginny pinches the bridge of her nose, her stomach sinking, and wonders how in hell she’s going to talk her way out of this one.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t have long to ponder how she’ll break the news. In the blink of an eye, Harry’s coming around the corner. Poor bloke. It’s not like he’s got much else to do but await her return. This whole quarantine experience is uncomfortably reminiscent of Sirius' last months of life. She can't ignore the ghostly memory of Dumbledore’s gentle chiding that energetic young men (and women, she supposes) don’t do well cooped up, cut off from the outside world...

“Hey!” says the man in question, flashing her a smile. “That was a quick one! Thought I heard you, but you’re—”

“I fucked up.”

Her whisper echoes in the flat. She stares at her trainers, her face burning.

She blinks up as Harry shifts in place; his smile is nowhere to be seen, replaced with the look she knows and hates. Harry’s jaw is set, his eyes narrowed in concern. He’s doing the whole _I’m-strong-for-you-but-I’m-afraid_.

“Erm. Ok?” he asks, gesturing towards the couch. “Would you like to...?”

“I’ve said something during the interview I shouldn’t,” Ginny adds, biting the inside of her cheek. “Something I definitely, definitely shouldn’t.”

There’s another pause. Ginny worries, just for a second, that she’s scared him or that he’s somehow already heard.

But she should’ve known him better. Because in a split-second, Harry both senses exactly what she needs... and acts on it.

He wraps her in his arms and rests his chin on the crown of her head. He presses her face to his chest and guides them both to the couch and makes soothing murmurs and brushes the hair away from her jaw.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says gently. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you claim, but—”

“It is,” Ginny whispers, miserable.

Harry shrugs. “Well, I can’t possibly know until you tell me, so—”

“She— she mentioned your mother.”

Harry’s chest stiffens as he draws a sharp breath; she gets the impression he’s trying very hard to wait until she’s done to interject with words of support.

“She... Sandra... she mentioned that I’m nearly 19, your mother was 19 when she fell pregnant, and—”

Harry cuts her off with a snort. “And does she think that was on purpose? I mean I’m happy I’m here, but yeah...” He shifts her in his arms, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I don’t seem intentional, given the circumstances.”

“Well, babies have a tendency of showing up like that,” Ginny replies dryly. “Sandra did raise a good point about making sure we’re... being careful.” She grazes a fingernail up his arm and relishes when his skin erupts in gooseflesh.

For a fleeting, victorious second, Ginny thinks she’s distracted him. She thinks she’s achieved her ultimate goal of turning his attention to the 24/7 sex they’re alleged to be having.

But she should know better, really, that Harry would ever be fooled when it comes to her.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Harry rumbles, his voice gentle but firm. “Not like I’ve got anywhere else to go, after all. We can sit here for the next few weeks if—”

“She asked when we’re having kids. And not just in passing,” Ginny adds, raising a pointer finger. “No, Harry, she _pushed_. Over and over. She suggested I was already pregnant, she brought up your mother, she asked when I’d function as the vessel for the Chosen One’s offspring…” She trails off with a sigh. “So. Finally, I snapped.”

He takes her still-extended pointer finger and gently pushes it into a fist. “What did you tell her?” he asks, kissing her knuckles. “Because from what I’m hearing, it sounds like she deserves it. Honestly I’m surprised you didn’t—”

“ _Isaidwhenyoustopfinishingonmytits_!”

There’s another pause. “Erm, sorry, what was that? I didn’t quite—”

“I said,” Ginny repeats, her voice strained, “that we’ll have a baby when you stop finishing on my tits!”

 _Fuck_.

She groans, sliding her hands over her face. Recapping this is somehow worse than living it the first time. Speaking it to Harry changes the stakes. It turns the situation from hypothetical to absolute. It solidifies that she fucked up... she really, really fucked up.

And she’s so lost in humiliation, so buzzing with horror, that it takes her a second to realize that Harry isn’t buzzing for the same reasons. Although he’s certainly shaking, isn’t he?

A second later, she dares to peer at him through her fingers. To her delight, Harry’s not furious — he’s _laughing_!

And when they make eye contact, his silent shaking transforms into full-body laughter. The type that sends tears to his eyes. The type that’s infectious, contagious. The type that makes her want to laugh, too.

“So I take it you’re not… angry?”

Harry wipes his eyes. “Ginny,” he says weakly, “I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe! Did you actually think I’d be angry over that?” He snorts, pressing her against his chest again. “No. For once and for all, _no_. She crossed a line, and she got what was coming.”

“But you hate attention,” Ginny moans into his shoulder. “You hate big displays and personal things being public and—”

“But I love you,” he says softly, kissing her temple. He gives a dry chuckle that sends tingled through her body. “And to be honest, you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t go off on people. Especially when they deserve it.”

She sighs, pulling back. She has to see his face to confirm. To reassure herself. As she’d suspected, Harry’s just giving her a wry smirk. His green eyes are flooded with warmth as he peers back at her. Even after all this time, he still looks at her like he can’t believe she’s there. Like he can’t believe she’s his. His smirk grows to a full-on grin, and Ginny bites her lip; she thinks he’s about to provide some sappy, lovesick rebuttal.

Instead, he replies with something that’s simultaneously the absolute best — and the absolute worst.

“Besides,” Harry says casually. “Joke’s on them. We both know I’d never have the self-control or coordination to finish on your tits.”

With that, she laughs... really, truly laughs. She relaxes against his side, letting the soothing rhythm of his voice wash over her. He laces his fingers through hers. He plays with the strands of her hands.

And by the end of the night, she’s thankful for exactly two things: her fiancé in quarantine, and the contraception that will keep them from enacting Sandra’s plan for a long, long time.


End file.
